


Worth the Price Paid

by BoundInSilence (justagrinningcat)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: AU: canon but present day, Academia!, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode: s04e08 The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg, Giving up your academic career is a massive sacrifice okay. like really massive., Implied Soulbond, M/M, No Sex, Some Cursing, no kissing i'm sorry, past and present tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 15:36:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7469229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justagrinningcat/pseuds/BoundInSilence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The week that Naomi sent the first draft of his dissertation to a publisher without his permission was the worst week of Blair Sandberg’s life. </p>
<p>It was also one of the most enlightening.</p>
<p>What surprised him most was not the pain or the fear that followed sensation of loss. It was the emptiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth the Price Paid

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly canon-ish. Updated to the present day, but the events of canon still happen and still happen as they do in the episode. That said, my knowledge of canon is through mostly casual watching, so things may be different.
> 
> IDK why I wrote this. I think mostly because I was struck by how huge a sacrifice that Blair made, and how emotional he was when he made it? Wanted to explore that a bit more.
> 
> First fanfic ever. I'm usually an original fiction kid. oh well here goes.
> 
> Un-beta'd. All the mistakes are mine.

The week that Naomi sent the first draft of his dissertation to a publisher without his permission was the worst week of Blair Sandberg’s life. 

It was also one of the most enlightening.

What surprised him most was not the pain or the fear that followed sensation of loss. It was the emptiness.

* * *

Losing Jim was not a _new_ fear. It was one that shadowed Blair, something that he turned his attentions from whenever possible but which always lingered at the back of his mind. Sometimes it was fear of losing Jim on the job— what they did was dangerous, as much as it was thrilling. (Jim— _everyone_ in major crimes, actually— had been shot enough times to make any sane police officer consider a career change, but tenacity was in their blood and danger would not dissuade them.) Other times, the fear of losing jim would be at the hands of romance, that he would be swept up in one of the women who gravitated towards him and that _this time_ it might prove to be permanent. He’d been married once, surely he wanted to be again, when he met the right woman.

Alex Barnes had really done a number on Blair, with those fears. First, she’d killed him— literally _fucking_ killed him— and it had taken a miracle whose memory still made him shudder to revive him. It had been love that brought him back, he’d _felt_ that, _known_ it as he’d felt the pull back to his waterlogged body. Wolf and Jaguar, Jim and Blair, Sentinel and shaman-guide, two entities becoming one— all those romantic notions, written in the stars. For a perfect moment, everything was right in the world, and something new and nameless and magical had been forged between them. And then they’d gone tearing off to another country, chasing after Alex, and reality had come crashing back. First, they’d been shot at, and then he’d watched that electric pull between Alex and Jim with dismay, and part of him had been jealous that Jim hadn’t been pulled towards _him._

He’d never acknowledged his want of Jim before that, but it was a surprisingly easily revelation to make, after that particular adventure. He didn’t fight it. He _wanted_ , he wanted _badly_ , and it felt inevitable. It was just also, you know, impossible.

And that was the last flavor of this fear, the most insidious form of the worry that dogged him. Because this was all too good to be true. They were two bachelors living together now, and it wasn’t _that_ weird because Blair was a graduate student and stipends weren’t great for making rent, and it was helpful for his research, and if they were friends on the side all the better. But this wasn’t a permanent solution. Sooner or later, Blair would graduate, and the excuse of research would end. And even if they could weather that, could cite their friendship as a reason to continue to be roommates, eventually Jim would meet someone and it would be _weird_ how much time they spent together, how much they enjoyed each other’s company. Then it would be over, and Jim would move into a house or the lucky lady would move into the loft, and Blair would…

Blair didn’t know what he’d do. He’d never let the thoughts get this far. They were uncomfortable, those eventualities, and he didn’t _like_ to be brooding or unhappy, and so he usually just banished them to the shadows of his brain and indulged happier things, like research or Jim or their police adventures.

But eventualities have this way of creeping up on you, whether you want them to or not, and here they were now. They weren’t shadows anymore. He couldn’t turn his face to the sun, towards Jim, and forget them. Because now Jim was infuriated with him, and it showed in the other man’s face, in the sentinel’s avoidance of him. Blair felt cold, empty, bereft without Jim’s solid presence; there was no longer a sun to turn to. 

That is how Blair discovered that loss is an empty thing, marked not by hot pain at the absence of something, but by the achingly cold awareness that there is nothing where something should be.

* * *

Blair didn’t track the days. He went through his routine lackluster and rote, and in the loft he stayed in his bedroom, assuming Jim would not want to see him. He could hear, occasionally, Naomi asking to come in, apologizing, and— once— trying to work things out with Jim on his behalf.

He did not cry. He did very little. He was frozen, trying to come to terms with this situation, trying to think in vain of any way to _fix this._ He’d never felt this way before, never felt this kind of loss before. And it was his fault. He couldn’t even really justify feeling sorry for himself, because— though it hadn’t been his action or his intention— he _had_ betrayed Jim in the most horrifying way possible, for a man who so loved his privacy. 

Blair vacillated between this aching, empty, terrible, horrifying stillness, and a frantic sort of mania where he tried desperately to find any solution ever. Time had little meaning. Sometimes he’d take his belongings and put them in the boxes he hadn’t thought to get rid of, left over from that time Jim had kicked him out, but more often than not even this simple task was beyond his energy reserves. 

He only _forced_ himself to function when he followed Jim to work, because Jim _needed_ him on the field, needed him undistracted and firing on all cylinders. He tried desperately to prove to Jim how sorry he was in his actions, by being a good guide, by helping, but Jim was righteously angry and shrugged him off. It hurt, it made him more frantic for a solution. 

He had to do _something_ to prove his sincerity to Jim.

* * *

The thing about academia is that it tends to be vocational. You don’t just _default_ into a doctorate, and certainly not at such a young age as Blair— you chase it because whatever you’re studying, you love it like you love breathing. Blair sometimes thinks that’s why his relationships are so shallow— why the women (and, occasionally, the men) he sleeps with rarely hold his attention long. How could they compare with the breathtaking diversity of human culture, beautiful in all of its forms? Nothing can. Nothing, except _perhaps_ Jim, who is breathtaking in his own right and who doesn’t feel the need to compete with his textbooks or his artifacts or his observations for attention. 

There is nothing quite like anthropology in the world, and there’s nothing Blair has _ever_ wanted to do more than immerse himself in it forever. His dissertation would be the first of many papers and books of his projected career. Publish or Perish seems like an exhilarating challenge, and he _cannot wait_ for it for or the research expeditions or for those two letters in front of his name and three letters behind it. The only thing he’s ever wanted as much as this is Jim, and his future as an anthropologist is much much more attainable than the daydreams about his and Jim’s whirlwind (and impossible, as he reminds himself every time he thinks of it) romance. 

He even, on occasion, indulged that secret pipe dream that all academics have— that he might not _just_ be a beloved and successful professor whose research within his field was widely respected and whose students adored him, but that he might publish something exciting enough to be enjoyed by more general audiences too. To write something appealing enough for the mass market, that could be enjoyed by more than the three other people in the world whose field of research overlapped enough with your area of speciality for your research to be relevant to theirs. He liked to imagine that it was _this_ thesis that did it, that he would meet with that success astoundingly early in his career (this was a pipe dream, why couldn’t he have it all?). If he could _just_ find a way of disguising their identities without compromising the scientific integrity of all his research, this could be the one to do it, too. 

In his imagination, his victory was sweet and rich, like fine wine or cake. 

In reality, it was dry and tasteless and slightly horrifying, like eating sand.

_Three Million Dollars._ Sid thought he was insane for turning it down. Naomi thought he was insane for turning it down. His _advisors_ thought he was insane for turning it down. But they all didn’t understand; that three million dollars wasn’t free, and it wasn’t just at the cost of research he’d already done and a paper he’d already written. The success and the fame and the three million dollars came at the price of Jim, of this relationship that had started out as an unlikely friendship and developed into something much more to Blair, something precious. Given the choice between Jim and three million dollars, there was no question, his decision was automatic. He would pay so much more.

He was about to pay so much more.

It had always been this. There was probably some part of him who’d always known he would give Jim everything, absolutely _everything_. Maybe that was why he’d so resolutely turned away from his fears, of Jim dying or leaving or moving on. Because, in the end, he would give Jim everything, and it would probably not be enough, but that would be okay because there was nothing else to do. It was just poetic that it would take this form, that it would be in penance for a mistake made my Naomi’s clumsy attempts to help him.

Some hysterical part of him was laughing bitterly at this situation— that _this_ was the action with which he confessed his love. Not with flowers or words, not drunkenly when the phrase slipped out past careful awareness made looser with drink, not even through the hints of _more_ whenever he and Jim said “I love you, man”, as they did sometimes, ostensibly in friendship. No, he confessed his love after it was already too late, through action instead of words, by giving Jim his future as an apology.

They were announcing the press conference; in a moment Blair would speak. He tried for a smile, but the nervous expression wouldn’t stick to his face, so he steeled himself instead. The short walk to the podium felt heavy and forever long, like he as approaching a gallows. He paused, hands tense against the wood surface of the podium; he looked at the crowd, he considered for the last time the price of what he was giving— his career, his future, _everything_ he had and _everything_ he’d worked for— he took a deep breath, and he _lied_. 

If his voice shook, at least everyone would assume it was with shame for what he was confessing to.

* * *

There was shouting. There was shame, but Blair barely felt it. He was removed in disgrace from his program, of course. His advisors and his fellows all looked at him in disgust. He emptied his office into the same sort of boxes he’d half-emptied his room into already, and noted that this feeling of loss was empty and aching too. Now there was simply nothing. No comfort, no future, no alternatives. Just the empty office at Ranier, and soon an empty desk at Major Crimes, and, after that, an empty room in Jim’s loft.

He had no plans for later. That probably should’ve been worrying, but he felt to hollow for fear anymore.

* * *

The first flicker of something that wasn’t _nothing_ happened at the PD. He’d come to empty his desk, of course, and Joel had come over to— well, Blair didn’t know what Joel was trying to do; obviously Blair was leaving and it was plenty clear why, that he wouldn’t be wanted here anymore, that he’d hoped to just clear off and go with as little fuss as possible.

But the Cascade PD was not a predictable place at the best of times, and here it lived up to its reputation; instead of confirming the emptiness of its future, the Major Crimes squad— his _friends_ — were offering him an alternative. They didn’t realize or care the shame he’d brought upon himself with that press conference, and they were willing to welcome him into their fold— no, _to keep him there._

Jim was even offering him a tentative smile, as Simon made noises about how Jim would be seeking an _official_ partner.

Overwhelmed by the unexpected show of support, by the return of Jim’s smile, Blair allowed himself to be carried by the buoyant attitude of the office— to feel warmth again, to feel the edges of relief and the little flickering light of hope. 

The police academy. It wasn’t anything he’d ever wanted— still wasn’t, actually, if he was honest with himself. But it was _something,_ which was more than he’d had an hour ago.

* * *

It was easy to get caught up in the swing of people and excitement. Blair had always been happy in crowds, had always fed off whatever energy they were projecting and reflected it; it had been a happy crowd back at the PD, and so he’d been happy in a dreamlike, hopeful way. Now, though, alone with Jim back at the loft, some tension returned.

Jim was making noises about dinner, bringing things out of the fridge; it was more conversation then they’d had in a week, and Jim made every appearance of just letting things slip back into their normal routine. Blair wanted that too, _badly_ , but there was still something heavy between them.

Something had changed. Obviously. Everything had changed, and though Blair was being given these gifts, part of him— the fears so recently proved worthy of attention, probably— was telling him that this dream could not last, that the return to normalcy was illusory.

Or perhaps it was guilt. Blair wanted to apologize, again (and he had, earlier, which made Jim look somewhere between pained and annoyed), but he’d already apologized a hundred times and there was nothing else more to say. 

Whatever it was, it was manifesting in a nervous edge to Blair’s every interaction, as if he expected that he’d turn around and find all his things in the boxes he’d already started filling, out in the center of the loft, in a horrible replay of that moment when Jim had kicked him out during the Alex situation. 

Blair never wanted to experience that again. He’d rather cut it off at the head.

He made his excuses to avoid dinner, and attempted a retreat into his room.

* * *

Jim has allowed Blair to retreat over the course of the last week, but Jim had been horrifyingly angry and upset, grappling with the fact that a man he’d trusted more than anyone in the world— his guide— had apparently released such sensitive information about his life publicly to the world, and he’d been juggling being under such public scrutiny at the same time. But Jim isn’t stupid, and he isn’t oblivious; you _couldn’t_ be entirely, when you can hear heartbeats as clearly as he can. 

Blair’s heartbeat especially, which had always been a constant, soothing, comforting presence, like rain or a metronome. 

The situation with the dissertation had been resolved, and its resolution made Jim lingeringly uncomfortable— actually, now that the worst is over for him, he feels like an ass. Anger had hardened him, made it easier to ignore the ghosts of Blair’s despair and apology that he could feel over whatever connection had formed between them when their spirit animals had merged and his guide had come back to him. Now the anger is gone, and Jim just wants this whole thing behind them.

It isn’t going to be that easy, of course. Can’t be, not with… not with Blair giving up his career like this. But he isn’t about to let Blair suffer as he had been the past week, either.

“Chief.” Jim calls, when Blair— heart beating a nervous fast staccato— retreats to his room, ignoring his offer of dinner. That call is ignored, so Jim stalks to the door and knocks, hesitating. “Blair.” No answer, but Blair’s nerves were a tangible thing, so he hesitates only a second before opening the door.

Blair is standing, looking over at his half-packed things, arms loosely around himself, unconsciously opening and closing his hands. He is staring at the boxes as if he didn’t know what to make of them, and is vaguely horrified by their existence. Jim is too, actually; it feels like the panther is shifting uncomfortably in his chest, whenever he thinks of Blair leaving.

This weird emotional tension is new to them, it has never been present before. Jim is not good at this sort of thing— never had been, not in his marriage and not now. He wants to _fix_ the problem and make it go away; the subtle art of comforting is a much harder and more amorphous thing. Blair is usually the happy, bouncy kind; he has plenty of reason not to be, at the moment, but it makes Jim ache nonetheless to see him so upset.

“Chief.” he starts, and is mostly proud that his voice only has the edge of a waver to it, and mostly sounds neutral— carefully so, obviously assumed. “Why’s your stuff in boxes.”

Blair tightens his fists unconsciously, and looks over in Jim’s direction. His eyes focus carefully on a point _above_ Jim’s head, and the panther shifts uncomfortably some more. “I, uh. I figured you wouldn’t want me around last week, man.” The thought trails off, as if Blair seems uncertain of his welcome even now. It’s a tenseness in Jim’s shoulders and neck and jaw that betrays his discomfort; his panther is pacing now, wherever it is that it lives. Blair has had a shitty week, and the turn of events at the PD was draining in an entirely different way; he is off-kilter and uncertain of where he stands. Where they stand. To each other.

Jim’s always been better with action than word. He crosses the room in a few short strides, but his touch is gentle when he wraps Blair in a hug, pulling the smaller man close. It reminds him of the other times they’ve done this— usually after Blair’s been shot or injured or otherwise rescued from the perilous situations they find themselves in too regularly, when Jim cannot stop himself from holding Blair close, proving to himself that Blair is still alive and warm and his. 

They need to do this under better circumstances, Jim decides, unhappy with those memories.

Blair is tense for a minute, and then relaxes into the hug, shuddering. He’s crying, Jim realizes. Jim also realizes that, for all the life signs he’d been grudgingly trying to ignore all week, the sound of _crying_ has not been among them. Jim isn’t a psychologist by any stretch of the imagination— that’s closer to Blair’s thing than his— and he doesn't know if it’s good or bad, that Blair hasn’t been crying all week and is now. He is just dismayed that his guide is hurting, it’s partially his fault, and he doesn’t know how to fix it. “You don’t have to go,” he says, a little desperately (reminded again that he really doesn’t want Blair to leave, and that’s where the edge of desperation comes from). “I’m not kicking you out, chief.” The _I don’t want you to go_ is implied.

Blair fists his shirt, opening and closing his hands again, and otherwise makes no other discernible reaction but to keep crying. Jim rubs his back and tries to be soothing, his brain quickly moving through anything to say that might even be _remotely_ comforting. “Shh, chief. It’s okay.” A second later, “Chief. It’ll be fine. And hey, if you don’t want to go to the academy, you don’t have to go.” he says this with a hint of regret, because he does like the idea of having Blair be his _official_ partner, but he remembers discussions about the police academy and the attitude of the police force in general, and how unfond of the prospect Blair had been in the past, “We can find you another university to go to, okay? You can just get your doctorate somewhere else.” Probably Seattle, he realizes with a pang. But that’s okay because they’ll figure this out somehow, Jim will come visit or something.

He doesn’t actually know all that much about how colleges or academia work; he pays only cursory attention to all the stuff related to it that Blair does. But they’ll figure something out. Anything for Blair. 

Blair finally has a reaction that’s not just crying, and it’s one he’s not expecting. The fists clench his shirt, and he pulls away, and he laughs— but it’s not a good laugh, and there’s a slightly hysterical glint in his eye. Blair shakes his head, and his smile is bitter and self-deprecating in a way that cuts Jim to see.

“No, man, I can’t.” he says, and the smile wavers at the edges, and Jim can _feel_ Blair’s awareness at what he’s lost— at what he’s given up— through their unnamed and unacknowledged connection. “You don’t- you don’t understand. What I did? In academia? In science? That’s- it’s unforgivable.” The laugh has that same bitter edge, “No college will take me, ever again. I’m not- I’ll never be an anthropologist. My name is going to be a curse, man. Like LaCour.”

The reference takes a second to process— grad student from a year ago who faked some results on a study. He hadn’t paid much attention to it, had only really heard about it because of Blair’s interest whenever the story came up. It takes him another second to connect that with Blair, because to all external appearances the situation is the same— Blair has “faked” results for attention as well. However, the thing that informed him of what that sacrifice _meant_ , how _heavy_ its cost was to Blair, is Blair himself. That knowledge is raw and poignant between them, felt far too keenly for Blair to hide it.

The statement is in the air between them, not accusatory but undeniably true: _I gave up my future for you._

Jim has never understood Blair’s love of Anthropology, but he knows it’s there, he knows it’s the kid’s fire. He’d also already known Blair was making a sacrifice by claiming his dissertation was a lie— a big sacrifice, at least the last three years of his life big— but Jim hadn’t realized just how big a sacrifice it actually is. He makes a small noise in his throat and tugs Blair back to him, inhaling the familiar scent of the guide (salt, wood, sandalwood soap, books, paper, dust, pen ink, the spices he likes in his food, that indefinable thing that is just _Blair_ ), trying to project whatever comfort he could. 

Blair seems to welcome this, nestling against his throat. In a small broken voice the smaller man says “I love you.”

Jim’s reaction is automatic: little squeeze, “I know. I love you too.”

But this does not get the reaction it usually does (a laugh and a closer hug, before they break off and do their own things); this time, Blair tenses, shakes, and pushes away again. “No, man. I mean, I _love_ you.” He emphasizes it verbally and mentally, semi-unconsciously infusing their connection with that emotion, still raw, that is at the heart of all of this anyway. The feeling is warm, but tentative, almost afraid; Blair is tense in his arms, like he expecting rebuke— but also firm, because damnit, Blair is going to put it out there. If he is going to come close to loosing this thing they have once this week already, he might as well just put all his cards on the table now. 

A complex mix of emotions swells in Jim’s chest— happy, but too many to name— not because it is a surprise, but to hear it out in the open. He quirks a half-smile and a little laugh. “I know,” he repeats, “I love you too.”

Blair stays tense as he considers this, as if measuring it to the rest of the unreal and chaotic and emotionally heavy events of this week, like he isn’t sure if he dares believe it true. Jim just stays where he is, warm and comforting and holding Blair close, letting him feel the truth of it for himself. After a few long seconds, Blair seems to accept it, and leans back into Jim’s hold bonelessly, as if suddenly feeling the weight of _everything_ and impossibly tired by it (but not empty, not as he had been (scary— cold, hollow, dark, aching, _empty_ )— just tired). Jim nuzzles Blair’s hair again, and kisses the top of his head, grateful to banish the frightening emptiness.

Once are were both soothed, Jim sighs and releases his hold, sliding his arms back to grip Blair’s shoulders comfortingly, giving them a squeeze. “Now, chief. I’m going to make dinner. You coming?” Blair nods with a wan, exhausted smile. Jim smiles back, and leads the way back out to the kitchen.

Tonight, they’ll have a quiet night (initially, anyway). Tomorrow, there will be discussions about the future— _their_ future and the future of their careers— but tonight is for cherishing what has survived between them and savoring what has started to grow.


End file.
